Lady of the Roses (18 page)

WARWICK SOON FULFILLED HIS PROMISE. OUR
swashbuckling soldier-pirate brought honor to the Neville name and captured the hearts of Englishmen with his exploits on the high seas. Though outnumbered twenty-eight ships to twelve, he soundly defeated the Spaniards off the coast of Calais and captured six enemy vessels laden with goods and treasure. London, that city of traders, nearly rioted with joy, for against the angry protests of the Merchants of the Staples, the queen’s favorites had been issuing licenses to their supporters, allowing them to evade the Staplers’ monopoly on wool. By his action, Warwick showed a clear sympathy for the Staplers and other London traders whom the queen’s favorites had been robbing for years.

All across England, in the taverns, the manor houses, the abbeys, and the counting houses, his victory was compared with that of King Edward III at the naval battle of Sluys a hundred years earlier, and everywhere the talk was of Warwick, whom people were now calling “England’s champion.” Even those who had not taken a stance either for or against Lancaster began to speak in favor of the cause of York. But, as support for York rose through the land, so did jealousy of the Nevilles and of the House of York surge at court.

“They call his feats ‘acts of piracy,’” Ursula said in disgust.

“Only at court, not elsewhere,” I replied, setting my spindle in motion and feeding it a handful of wool fiber. “London has turned so hostile to the court party that the queen has moved permanently to Coventry and Kenilworth, which are Lancastrian in sympathy.”

“How is it piracy when Spain is an ally of France, and we’re still at war with France? What about the piracy of the queen’s favorites, who have been looting the merchants for years?”

“The Lancastrians will call it what they will…and do what they will.”

“’Tis a reckless lot they are,” murmured Ursula irritably.

I paused the spinning wheel. “I fear the queen won’t take Warwick’s successes lightly.”

Indeed, she didn’t. Soon we learned that Egremont and his brother Richard Percy escaped from Newgate Prison, and the queen gave them refuge at court. On the heels of this news came disturbing reports of the measures Marguerite was implementing against the House of York. Across the land, from high office to low, from the Lord Chamberlain to sheriffs and judges, men whose loyalty to Lancaster was suspect were replaced by appointments from the queen’s own household staff. At every turn—on the castle grounds, in the taverns of the nearby village of Staindrop, in the shops and on the streets of the city of York, where I journeyed with the countess to purchase dressmaking and other sundry supplies—people passed on the latest reports sweeping the country.

“The queen’s sacked Shrewsbury and replaced him with the Earl of Wiltshire as Lord High Treasurer,” a woman told a butcher as she bought a pound of sausage.

“The coward who fled the Battle of St. Albans for fear of ruining ’is pretty face?” the butcher asked.

“The same. The queen likes pretty faces.”

“An’ Wiltshire finds nothing prettier than a piece of gold, I reckon!” another customer interjected. “The fox guards the henhouse now, don’t he?”

“And once they empties that, the queen and ’im, they’ll find other ways to steal from us,” the butcher replied. “There’s no end to their greed, that lot.”

As we feared, the Lancastrian appointments were soon followed by persecution and impoverishment of those loyal to the House of York. The lands of Yorkist retainers, yeomen, tenants, and farmers were confiscated, their manors and property ransacked. Money became a serious problem for us, and we found ourselves cutting back our expenses as best we could. We gave up the luxuries of spices, reduced the purchase of furs and woolens for the household, and made do with more fish from the pond and less meat. Countess Alice sent orders to the household that no clothes be replaced until further notice. What cash there was went to the armorers, for on armaments we dared not stint. One chilly day in mid-October, Ursula’s mother, Lady Marjorie Malory, arrived at Middleham seeking refuge, having been driven from the Malory manor in Warwickshire.

“The marauders sacked the house and carried off the oriental fabrics the household wore,” she wailed. “They had been passed on by Sir Malory’s dead uncle! And they took the precious Rhodian wine we had conserved in the cellar for nearly twenty years! And the Saracen carpets my dear lord Sir Thomas inherited!” She burst into fresh tears. Ursula did her best to console her, to no avail. “We have nothing, Ursula! We are paupers now. Who will take care of us? Where can we go?”

“You are welcome with us for as long as it takes to restore your property to you, Lady Malory,” Countess Alice reassured her.

I cast a look at the desperate, homeless faces crowding the great hall, wondering how long this could continue, for even as we cut back, more mouths arrived to swell the castle indigents, as others who had been expropriated by Marguerite sought succor from their lord, the Earl of Salisbury. But it was at Middleham, when Warwick’s countess, Nan, visited from Warwick Castle, accompanied by the earl’s sister Cecily, Duchess of York, that I came to appreciate the true extent of the breakdown of law and order across the land.

“Poor Radford,” Nan mourned almost as soon as she greeted us. “Poor dear Radford…What they did to him, ’tis an outrage…an outrage….”

I did not know who Radford was, but I soon learned. The Duchess of York gave us the tale over wine and sweetmeats in the silk-draped Lady’s Bower.

“We knew Nicholas Radford well. He was man of aged years, and a lawyer of great distinction who represented our friend Lord Bonville against the queen’s supporter the Earl of Devon. My lord offered him a high appointment during his protectorate, and Radford could have reaped riches in London, but he refused. ‘If I leave, who will represent those that suffer at the hands of the Earl of Devon?’ he asked. My lord husband was moved by his words.”

She paused a moment, remembering. “Radford lived in Upcott, near Exeter. Late one night, he received a visit from Sir Thomas Courtenay, one of Devon’s sons, who had been terrorizing the area. He came with a hundred of his father’s men. They surrounded Radford’s residence and set fire to the gates….”

Duchess Cecily hesitated. The laughter of children floated to us through the open window. I waited intently, half dreading what I was to hear. And terrible it was. As the duchess continued, the events of that night unfolded before my eyes.

The old man had gone to the window to find a rabble of men standing at the gates, their faces lit by flames.

“Who’s there?” he’d called.

“Radford!” Courtenay yelled. “Come down from your chamber and speak with me. I swear on the faith and fealty that binds me to God, and on my word as a knight and gentleman, no harm shall come to you, or your property.”

Assured by the solemn promise, Radford had opened the main door, and Courtney had entered with all his henchmen.

“So many, my lord?” Radford had asked, alarmed at their number.

“Have no fear,” Courtney had reassured him. “Take me to your private room, where we can talk.”

There, Devon’s son partook of Radford’s wine and held him in conversation, while his ruffians ransacked the entire house, removing whole beds, napery, books, cash, ornaments from the chapel, and other household goods to a value of one thousand pounds.

“The ruffians even toppled Radford’s invalid wife out of her bed so they could take the sheets,” the duchess added after a brief pause. “Then Courtenay said, ‘Hurry, Radford, for you must come with me to my lord, my father.’ Radford sent a servant for a horse, and the servant returned, trembling, to report that all the horses had been taken away, laden with the stolen goods. Radford turned to Courtenay and said bitterly, ‘Oh, Sir Thomas Courtenay, you have broken your promise. I am old and feeble, and can hardly travel on foot, so I must beg of you to be allowed to ride.’ To this Courtenay replied, ‘Have no fear, Radford. You will soon ride well enough. Come with me.’ They left the house, and when they were a stone’s throw away, Courtenay had a few words with several of his men and galloped off, calling, ‘Farewell, Radford!’ Then the men fell on Radford with swords and daggers, and slew him cruelly.”

No one spoke or moved after Duchess Cecily delivered the tale. “I fear worse to follow,” Duchess Cecily concluded quietly, making the sign of the cross.

We had not long to wait to learn the truth of her prophecy.

THE NEW YEAR OF
1458
ROARED IN ON A HAILSTORM
. Warm and comfortable, with John at my side through Twelfth Night and my stomach large with child, I worked my broidery loom, played my lyre, and read in the earl’s library. All was serene in our corner of the realm, far from court and trouble, and for this I sent many a thankful prayer heavenward. Thus passed January of 1458.

My babe was due to be born in March, but the pains came a month early, and on Candlemas, the second day of February, I gave birth to twin girls. We named the firstborn Anne and the second child Isabelle, in honor of John’s little nieces. The night of my labor had been chill, and a light flurry of snow had fallen, leaving the windows edged with frost. But morning brought the sun, and in my hazy sight, clouded and dazed by the travail of childbirth, the light that lit the frosty panes seemed unduly sharp. I did not know whether to take that as a good omen, but I hoped that it was so. I gazed on the wailing newborns the midwife placed in my arms.

“Anne has your dimples, my love,” I whispered to John.

“And Izzie has your chestnut hair, my angel,” he replied, his face soft, aglow with love and pride. He stroked her down with a gentle touch.

“Angels have golden hair, not chestnut, John,” I laughed. “Even I am not so far lost in my senses to know that.”

He kissed my sweat-drenched brow. “My angels have chestnut hair,” he replied, as he always did.

We passed our first wedding anniversary in glorious celebration, surrounded by our wailing babes, laughing and making merry. In June more good news came of Warwick’s great success on the seas. After a running battle that lasted two days, he had defeated several Genoese and Spanish ships. Three of the enemy vessels were brought in triumph to Calais. Once again England blazed with pride in Warwick’s victories.

The sweet summer months gave way to the ruby leaves of autumn. As October sunshine dissolved into dreary rain, I discovered I was expecting another child. On the second of November, All Souls’ Day, when I was four months pregnant, John made an announcement.

“I’m going to Sheriff Hutton,” he informed me. “And from there to Westminster.”

I gave Izzie over to the nurse and looked at John blankly. “To court?” I said, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, a vision of Somerset’s wrathful face swimming in my mind. “But why? What is so pressing that you must go to court?”

“The queen has summoned Warwick to report on Calais and explain his attack on the Easterling salt fleet, which she’s calling an act of piracy. She’s appointed Lord Rivers head of a commission of an inquiry. We know their intent is to take the captaincy of Calais from Warwick and give it to Somerset. I must be there for my brother in case of trouble.”

“Who is this Lord Rivers?”

“You know him as Sir Richard Woodville, the queen’s favorite. He’s that landless knight who married the Duchess of Bedford. Marguerite’s elevated him to baron now.”

Elizabeth Woodville rises higher still,
I thought, not without a pang of bitterness.

Sleep during these days proved fitful. I was plagued with bad dreams, fueled no doubt by the worries over John’s forthcoming visit to Westminster. On the night after his departure, I sat restless at the window, looking out at the dark night and listening to the chapel monks sing their matins prayers. Abruptly an idea came to me. I would to go to London! But secretly, so no one could prevent me, and that they would surely do, since I was with child.

At first light, I went in search of the new man John had hired to attend my personal needs, and found him in the armory, giving a hand to the smith shoeing Rose.

“Geoffrey,” I called. Though nearly fifty, he was strong and wiry, and still had his hair and a good set of teeth. He left the smith and wiped his hands on a leather apron, giving me a warm smile as he did so, for smiles came easily to him and he had an especially good nature. A soldier for most of his life, he walked with a limp from an old battle injury, so John had persuaded him to accept an easier livelihood, and he had newly joined my tiny personal household from the village of Sawston, where we held a manor house.

“M’lady?” he asked.

“I’m going to London. You and Ursula are to come with me. Saddle a brown mare for me. I’m not taking Rose.” About to leave, I turned back. “She attracts too much attention, and ’tis a secret matter. You are not to mention it to anyone. We depart within the hour.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he gave no other evidence of his amazement. “M’lady, I’ll have everything ready.”

THE GREAT BELL OF THE CLOCK ON THE STONE
tower at Westminster was tolling the hour of five when I arrived in London with Ursula and Geoffrey. We heard it as far away as Bishopsgate, since many citizens had retired to their homes for the evening meal and it was quiet in the city.

November clouds hung heavy over Westminster as we approached, mirroring tensions everywhere. Guards searched our faces longer than usual before giving us permission to enter the palace grounds; groomsmen took our horses silently; and a varlet helped Geoffrey remove my heavy coffer from our small cart with averted eyes and barely a grunt. The large courtyard, with its great fountain, teemed with the usual assortment of merchants on business, friars and clergy, knights, ladies, and hopeful petitioners. But laughter and chatter were nowhere to be heard, not even among the servants. I was troubled by the absence of the customary ribald talk they used with one another to make light of their burdens as they carried sacks bulging with flour to the kitchens, or bent over to receive a load of firewood on their backs.

I approached a royal officer whom I knew to be in the service of the chamberlain. After showing him my ring bearing Prince Edward’s insignia of the swan, I gave him a silver coin and requested the small room I had been assigned the previous year.

“I woudna do this for just anyone, you understand, Mistress Haute?” he said, using the false name I had given him and pocketing the money quickly. “Not with times being what they are. But yours is a familiar face, and sure I am it doesna harm.”

We waited a long time before he returned to lead us to our chamber. “The closet has been used for storage for the past month, an’ we had to move a bed back in,” he explained.

Following him across the cobbled courtyard and up the tower stairs, I made certain to keep my head lowered and my hood raised to avoid being recognized, praying not to cross paths with Somerset. Many of the lords we passed stood together in small groups, speaking in hushed tones, their expressions guarded, eyes darting around and hands on the hilts of their daggers. Outside, by the fountains and along the hedge walks, ladies strolled with anxious glances and spoke to one another with heads close together, their lips barely moving. Even the dogs that lay around the castle steps and in the halls set cautious eyes on us as we passed.

Following the man through the main corridor, we passed the great hall, and soon thereafter took the familiar left turn into the narrow corridor where Somerset had accosted me the night he was drunk. At the end of this, we turned right into the even narrower and gloomier dead-end passageway that led to my former chamber. The man threw me a glance as he jangled his keys before the door.

“This chamber’s close to the rowdy great hall, and isolated from the other ladies, but if you’re sure ’tis what you want—”

“I am certain of it.” I smiled.

He creaked open the oaken door into the low-vaulted, dark room with the high window, and departed with a bow. I sank down on the bed with a sigh.

“Welladay, Ursula, John is here to help his brother, should Warwick need it, and I come to help John, should John need it,” I said. “Let us hope neither of us is needed.”

Ursula said nothing. She’d already spoken her mind vociferously many times along the journey. She considered me reckless to undertake such a journey when I was with child.

A knock at the door announced Geoffrey. He entered with another man, struggling with the coffer. Though not very large, it was deep and heavy, for along with the clothes, I had taken the precaution of including some weapons. They set it down against the wall and withdrew. Suddenly weary, I looked up at the window high above. Darkness had fallen, and the sky had turned black. The clanking of dishes reached my ears; the supper horn would soon sound. I had no wish to eat in the great hall, where Somerset might see me, and besides, I wasn’t hungry. “You may sup in the hall, Ursula. I doubt anyone will trouble you if you sit below the salt with the servants, but keep your ears open for news.”

She helped me out of my travel gown and into a woolen shift, and draped a blanket around my shoulders. Worn down by worry and the long journey, I laid my head on the pillow and soon fell asleep to troubled dreams. Dull morning light filled the chamber when I opened my eyes. The washbasin on the table stood filled with water, a towel beside it. Instantly awake, I raised myself on my elbow to find Ursula watching me anxiously.

“What news? Did you find out where they’re going to meet, and when?”

Leaning close, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I fear some evil, dear Isobel. Last night I overheard a remark from one of the queen’s servants, something about finishing the ‘business’ this day. I felt it was my lord of Warwick they meant.”

After she had laced and buttoned me into my dress, I sent her on her way to break fast, with an admonition to find out where the council meeting was to be held. Turning over all kinds of dangers and plans in my mind, I paced nervously as I awaited her return. She came back within the hour, bearing bread and cheese. I listened to her report, nibbling thoughtfully. As it turned out, my concern was well founded.

“They have lost no time. From breaking fast, they went directly to their meeting. They’re in a council chamber next to Westminster Hall—”

Good, we were close, as I’d planned.

“But matters are not going well. I heard the Earl of Warwick shouting at Somerset as I left, and men came to wait in the hall as soon as the servants began gathering up the trestle tables. They’re lounging in two groups along the walls, Lancastrians on one side, Yorkists on the other. The Earl of Warwick seems to have a goodly retinue with him, but I fear the queen’s men outnumber his by far.” Ursula paused. “The way the royal attendants were looking at our lord of Warwick’s men made me most uneasy, Isobel dear…like they were awaiting a signal—”

As if on cue, we heard shouts. I threw down the crust of bread in my hand and grabbed the dagger from under my pillow. The noise came from the great hall. With Ursula following close behind me, I opened the chamber door, then turned left a few paces and left again into the narrow passageway that led to the main corridor and the great hall. By the time I reached the opening, the din was a raucous clamor, punctuated by desperate cries of,
“A Warwick! A Warwick!”
The clanging of metal burst over my ears as men exchanged blows with swords. My heart hammering in my chest, I flattened myself against the wall and peered around the corner. A chilling sight met my eyes. I gasped, drew back, and turned to Ursula. “Warwick’s surrounded! He’s fighting for his life!”

At the entrance to the great hall, in the midst of his retinue and heavily outnumbered, Warwick was beset by the queen’s men. My eyes swept the thicket of pikes and swords as a wave of panic surged within me.

“There’s John!” I cried. He was about ten paces away, his back to me. “Oh my God, he’s been separated from Warwick and has only a few men at his side!”

I watched in horror as others streamed to join the melee from all directions, wearing King Henry’s badge of the panther. Emerging from the stairwells that led down to the kitchens and pantries, they poured toward the fray like dogs to a cornered quarry, brandishing knives and cleavers, pestles and clubs. John, parrying blows with three ruffians at once, disappeared into a small chamber on my side of the passageway, only yards away. The clash of steel and metal now resounded with ear-shattering force. Suddenly a great group of men rushed out of the great hall. Slashing at the queen’s men, they moved forward, toward Warwick.

In stunned joy, I turned to Ursula. “They’re the lords from the council meeting! Led by Duke Humphrey! He’s fighting his way to Warwick’s side! Oh, Ursula, I think he means to save him!”

Duke Humphrey and the other lords cut a path open for Warwick down the hall toward the far stairwell that led to the river, where his barge was moored outside the water gate. As the queen’s men saw their prey about to escape their grasp, I flattened myself against the wall and stole another look around the corner. Warwick had moved even farther down the hall; now it seemed he would make good his escape.
God bless good Duke Humphrey!
I thought, my heart swelling with gratitude. This was the man who had tried time and again to play peacemaker between the warring factions of York and Lancaster.

“But, Blessed Mother, where is John?” I peered around the corner again. Everyone had their backs to me as they parried with Warwick, trying to slay him. My heart was in my mouth when my husband suddenly reappeared. He looked pale and was unsteady on his feet, his left arm dangling limp at his side as he fought a lone ruffian. I covered my mouth to stifle the gasp that escaped, but John heard me. A look of bewilderment flashed across his face. Then I indicated the dagger in my hand. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod, and I slid back into the hallway and waited. Hacking wildly at his opponent, John forced him toward me. The opportune moment came suddenly as a lightning strike. With both hands and all my strength, I thrust my dagger into the man’s back and watched as he collapsed. Grabbing John’s good hand, I drew him out of sight and ran with him down the long passageway until we reached my chamber. Behind us, Ursula mopped up the drops of telltale blood from the floor with a strip of linen she had torn from her shift.

John was about to sink onto the bed, but I cried out, “No! You’ll stain the sheets!” From the passageway came faint voices, then footsteps. John eyed the space under the bed. “No! Not under there,” I cried in a frantic whisper. “In here…” Wildly I emptied the coffer of my gowns.